The girl sat opposite him, wearing what appeared to be the regulation Levi's and a blue 'Friends of the Earth' heavy cotton long -sleeved jumper. Her trainers were blindingly white, new Nike's. She wore two studs in one ear, and her hair was a mass of tight black curls that covered her shoulders. Despite his protests, her mother bustled in with very strong black coffee in record time, and small plate of beautifully cut slices of a home-made fruit tart, a plate for him, a serviette, and a small fork. A chased silver, sugar bowl shone on the walnut coffee table. Now they all sat facing him; the mother, in an armchair, plump thighs revealed in flesh coloured tights, her work dress or 'grembiule' riding up over them; the girl in another, rather too deliberately relaxed; and the father standing with a hand on each armchair in a protective, or possibly, possessive manner. It was one o'clock. Lunch was still a lingering perfume in the air. He sipped his coffee with appreciation, and decided that he would eat the cake, as lunch was not on his agenda. He had come alone, as he liked the minimum of fuss, and wanted the child to feel reassured by the lack of uniforms.
"Signora, my compliments. The cake was delicious, and the coffee excellent."
"No, no, it's just a simple little cake, not very fancy," she demurred.
"Not at all. These are the best kind of cakes, home-made. Thank you very much." He wiped his mouth with the serviette, and having made what he hoped was a good start, prepared to state his business.
"As you know I am here to try and gain some more information about Giovanni Lazzerini."
"What a tragedy," said the Signora misty eyed. "Such a lovely boy."
The daughter, whose legs were stretched out in front of her, was paying great attention to the point of her shoe.
The father sighed, " Of course we knew him, everybody did, and then he went out with Maria for a while. Not that I approve of young girls getting involved with boys when they should be thinking about their studies, but, there you are. Anyway, as I was saying, he seemed a nice enough boy and I can't think why anyone should want to do this to him. It must have been one of those maniacs you hear about."
"Possibly. I wonder if I could ask you both a great favour?" He gazed directly at the parents. "Would you allow me to speak with your daughter alone?"
The girl shot him a startled glance. The parents looked at each other, and the mother started to heave her body out the chair.
"Of course, I'm sure it would be better that way. I've work enough to do, and Giorgio here has to be at work by two, he's on the afternoon shift."
The girl said nothing.
"Thank-you very much," said Di Girolamo, and waited until they had closed the door before speaking to the girl who had returned to her examination of her shoes.
"Maria, please tell me what you know about Giovanni. You went out with him, and you know the people he frequented, tell me about him."
She looked directly at him, with her dark, rather empty eyes. "He was just a boy like any other. I went out with him for a bit, but it didn't last long."
"Why was that?" The girl looked uncomfortable. "Anything you tell me is confidential you know. You are not on trial. You’re just giving me some background information. Please don't keep anything back. I'm sure that anyone who knew him wouldn’t want his murderer to go unpunished."
"I don't see how it can help you, my telling you why I stopped going out with him," she said stubbornly.
"Let me explain. I don't know anything about this boy, but you do. You know what sort of person he was, where he went, what he did, who he was seeing now, and the sort of places he went to. All that sort of thing. I want to know him as well as you did."
She smiled briefly. "O.K" She took a deep breath. "Look we went out for a bit, discos and so on, but he wanted to have sex with me, and I said no. He got a bit violent about it, well not violent, but really forceful, and well, I was frightened to death. Then he said, ‘I'll get you one of these days, when you're alone, and I'm not, and then we'll see what happens.’ He said I was a prick-teaser." She looked a bit pink in the face, and sighed. " I didn't want to tell you because, well, you know that thing about not speaking ill of the dead, but, then I suppose, well, if he said that to me, then maybe he really did it to someone, I mean forced them to, and maybe that's why he was killed."
"Who was he going out with?"
"Teresa Rinaldi, but he won't have had any trouble there. She's easy." Her tone was scornful.
"Where does she live?"
"Up on the Castello road, it's a farm, just before the turn off to Castello Alto." She thought for a moment. "Look, maybe you had better see her at the school. Her parents are very old fashioned, shot-gun marriage types. They'd kill her if they knew what a tramp she is. You know she's sort of a country bumpkin type, and she thinks if she lets everyone go with her, she'll be popular. It's sad really. Don't tell her I gave you her name."
"Don’t worry. I'll be going to the school, myself, so I'll see her there along with all the others. The uniformed men have already started doing a preliminary investigation there, but, well, I like to see people myself, not read a report about what they said. What class is she in?"
"3C"
"Is there anything else you think I should know?"
"Well, he…Giovanni, goes around, I mean, went around, in a group with all these really big-headed slobs. At first I thought he was different you know, but they're all the same. They think they're God's gift to women. It's true that they're all good-looking, and all the girls are queuing up for them. They can have it from anyone."
"But not from you."
"No, not from me."
"You’re very wise. Now the names I have here are…" He read a list of boy's names. "Anyone else?"
"No. That's the group."
"Right. Thank you very much."
"I'll see you out." She opened the door for him, and in the hall they almost bumped into a tall thin boy, with a very pale face, long greasy ringlets and a ring through his eyebrow. He gave them a startled look and bolted into the kitchen. The girl felt obliged to say, "My older brother, the drop out."
He surprised himself by saying, quite fiercely, "Don't you drop out, Maria. You hold on, and do something for yourself."
The girl looked at him seriously and replied, "I will. Don't worry. I know what I want, and I'm going to get it."
"Good. Thank you, and thank your mother once again for me, please."
Maria closed the door, and turned thoughtfully back into the house. Her brother's white face peeked out of the kitchen.
"Jesus, that nearly gave me the shits. I thought the bastard was going to search the house or something."
"Pity he didn't, then he might have found something, and arrested you."
"Very funny."
"I wasn't joking. You should have seen Mum's face when the fuzz turned up. I thought she was going to faint. Can't you see what you're doing to everyone? Don't you care?"
He looked down at the floor, avoiding her accusing eyes, then turned abruptly and ran up the stairs. She heard his bedroom door slam, and the sound brought her mother out into the hall. The two women looked at each other, but said nothing. Maria reached for her anorak, put it on, and left the house without speaking.
The rest of di Girolamo’s day passed in a blur of reports from neighbours and information phoned in anonymously, saying that the boy had got his just deserts, or accusing some local person of the crime. He was also informed that there was drug trafficking going on under the nose of the police, but that they were doing nothing about it because they were all in the pay of the Mafia. The informant concluded by saying that the Mafia always dealt with their own in very unpleasant ways, and this boy was no doubt part of this flourishing drug ring that was being allowed to thrive to the detriment of the town's good name.
At the end of it all; nothing.
CHAPTER SIX
Isabelle was enthusing about her builders, her 'muratori'. "Marco is such a wonderful person," she said for the nth time, and then told Hilary all about Alessa
ndro the nephew, and Marco's brother Matteo, and his beautiful daughter, and then their wives. Hilary was tired, and as the voice droned on, she felt herself slipping away, " ...positively medieval my dear. That woman hardly leaves the house. She's not old either, or infirm or anything. She's nothing more than a servant, and presumably, a breeder, though with only one child, and a daughter at that…of course, a much more resilient sort of person. Rather a strong character I think, though she does seem a trifle surly, I thought. Hilary?"
"Eh…What!"
"I'm sorry. I'm obviously boring you. You didn't hear a word I said," said Isabelle in an offended tone.
"I did, I promise you. It's just that I didn't sleep very well last night, and I suddenly feel terribly tired.
"Why don't you pop up and have a little rest, my dear. I'll look after the shop."
"I think I will." She staggered up the stairs with leaden legs, threw herself onto the bed, and slept like a log until dark. Feeling totally disoriented, and hardly aware whether it was morning or afternoon, she went to the bathroom, and paused on the landing, as she heard trills of jolly laughter from Isabelle, who was saying in a flirtatious manner, " My dear man, how fascinating." the phrase loaded with emphatic flattery.
"Bloody hell, I wish she would just bugger off," she said to the mirror, which merely reflected, a youthful forty-seven year old, with sleepy blue eyes, a tousled mop of short, silvery blonde hair, and a gloomy expression. She washed and made her face up lightly, then put on a stunning black cowl-necked jersey and tight black velvet trousers. When she entered the sitting room the contrast with Isabelle's large lumpy skirt and top could not have been more evident, which was exactly what she intended.
"Darling," she said putting a hand on Ruggero's sleeve, "We're eating out, remember? Isabelle, please feel free to cook yourself anything you find, and excuse me, but I absolutely have to be alone with Ruggero this evening. It's our five month's anniversary, you do understand."
"Oh, but of course. How lovely, my dear. Have a nice time." She sounded a little forlorn, and used her wistful tone of voice, which Hilary stalwartly ignored.
Ruggero followed her from the room, giving a wave to Isabelle. "Our what anniversary?"
"Oh, how the hell do I know. I just want to get out of here before I go crazy. She talks all the time, and most of it is romantic drivel. Let's go to the Golden Mill up in the mountains, you know that one on the road towards the pass."
"Fine, you're the boss."
"What's the time Ruggero, I'm totally freaked out."
"It’s nearly seven. I came home early, because I couldn't do anything more today."
"Thank God you did."
"She's not that bad is she? I thought she was sweet."
"Well, I've no doubt you were meant to think that."
"Anyway it's a good idea, because perhaps we can talk about things."
"Yes, please."
Hilary was stunned. She had listened in total silence to Ruggero's story, and now her mind was in a turmoil of questions, and denials. She had eaten little, hardly aware of what she put in her mouth, but had finally given up and asked for a coffee. He too seemed to have almost no appetite. They now sat in silence, both trying to come to terms with the implications of what he had told her.
In June 1998, on the second anniversary of his wife's death, Ruggero had gone to the cemetery, not really knowing why, because he was an atheist and, as he put it himself, not into the cult of the dead. He had taken a single rose, and placed it in a jam jar, which he had found there with some rotting flowers in it. He thought it a pointless gesture, because he knew only too well that Sylvia herself had always avoided that sort of thing, and had always disassociated herself from her family who, on the 2nd of November, the Day of the Dead, rushed off to polish up the tombstones of their dead. As he turned away from the grave, he bumped into Camilla, a friend and colleague of Sylvia, there on a similar mission. They had gone for a drink at her flat, and landed up having many more, and then somehow, gone to bed together. When Ruggero woke up the next morning with a hangover, he found himself alone in the flat and read the note she had left for him.
‘ Ruggero Caro,
I know this meant nothing to you. Please don't feel you have any obligation whatsoever towards me. We are friends I hope, but nothing more. Please forget this happened, unless….’
He had never contacted her again. Now she had contacted him. He had gone to Florence to meet her, and she had told him that she was seriously ill, dying. She looked awful; thin and much older.
He remembered their bizarre conversation. Camilla had said;
"I worked with Sylvia, and I was very fond of her, and of you. As you know I never married, work was the most important thing. My career as a doctor was the only thing that counted. There were men, but they were peripheral. I was not prepared to make any concessions. I never felt the need for a husband or children. Then Sylvia died, in that absurd way, in that stupid, stupid accident.
"Anyway, I don't know why, but I began to look at life differently. I was the same age as Sylvia, as you know. I knew it was getting late. I had to make a decision. You see, I suddenly realised that I wanted a child, very much. I was surprised at myself, because I had never even considered having a child until then. It became an obsession. I stopped taking birth control and slept with several eminently, genetically suitable, prospective fathers. Not that they could ever have imagined that what I wanted from them was not sex, but a child, but I never got pregnant. I didn't want a husband, you understand, I wanted a child.
Then we met at the cemetery, and had that night together. Well, I got pregnant. I had your child Ruggero. His name is Cosimo di Girolamo. He is nine months old, and he is the most wonderful thing that I have ever seen. He is everything for me. There is nothing else, only him. I took all the time off work that it was possible for me to take, and then some more. I was still breastfeeding him when they discovered that I have invasive, terminal, pancreatic cancer. I will be dead within a month, or two, more or less. I want you to take your son." Hilary was turning over various things to say, but asked only, "What did you say?"
"That I would take him, of course." They sat in silence for a while longer.
"Have you seen him?"
"No, I'm due to go next weekend. Will you come with me?" he looked at her directly, and she knew that he was asking her for much, much more than that.
"Yes, of course," she replied.
The girl tossed and turned on her bed in the darkened room. She had been lying here weeping for days. Her swollen breasts leaked milk, and her uterus contracted, expelling blood in what seemed to her to be excessive quantities. Her head ached and she felt feverish.
She had begged and begged them not to take the child from her, but as her body had contracted and thrust the infant into the world, so her father had taken it from her. She had never even seen it, not even known whether it was a boy or a girl. Her life was now within the confines of her bedroom. Her father had not spoken to her at all after he had taken the child, beyond hissing the word, "Whore" at her. Her mother came in every so often, to bring her food, which she couldn't touch, and water, which never seemed to quench her thirst. She too never spoke to her, and ignored her frantic pleas for information.
She slept a lot, and wondered if they were drugging her, but perhaps that was better then the torments of being able to think, her mind going round in circles, "Where’s my baby. I want my baby. Help me, please; give it back to me." She thought she must be asking God, though he never seemed to have listened to her much in the past, and would hardly help her now, considering how sinful she was.
Her father! All through the labour, relentless as the contractions, his voice, asking the same question, "Who was it, who did it?" And finally she had told him, the sad sordid truth, and he had said, ‘Whore.’ Nothing else, just that one terrible word of condemnation. He condemned her, and he condemned the baby. Where was it? He wouldn't have killed it? No, impossible, not even he could do that.
He was capable of many things, she knew that only too well, but surely not that. He must have taken it away, but where? She must get her strength back, go and look for it. Yes. She must find it, give it the milk that swelled her breasts. "I am coming for you", she murmured, staggering up from the bed, but when she reached the door, she found it was locked, and she was a prisoner.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ruggero spent the next morning at the school. It was a lengthy and boring process of sifting a huge mass of information, and coming up with very little that was of any use.
The boys named as part of the group that Giovanni Lazzerini hung out with were all in the same year, with the exception of two older youths who worked, and presumably supplied 'wheels' on occasion. The rest of the boys all owned motor scooters, but didn't use them much in the winter, because it was so cold. Giovanni's scooter had not been found, yet, according to his mother, he had been using it that evening.
He looked at the list of students all in the third year at the Magistrale. There were three classes, with roughly twenty-five students in each class. Seventy-five of them; even at five minutes a head, this was going to be a long drawn out affair, and some of them would obviously need to be seen for longer. He asked the Maresciallo to do one class, and if there was anyone promising, that person would be seen by him as well. He started on those in the same class as Giovanni.
There was a predominance of females in this school, partly because teaching offered little incentive to men, whereas for a woman, especially a married woman, the low wages were less important. In this class there were five boys, counting the dead boy, and twenty girls.
The morning went very slowly. He interviewed adolescents chewing gum, and looking bored, others who looked frightened, and those who had hardly known Giovanni. Even the boys who had known him were not of much help. They all confirmed exactly what Francesco Orsi had said, and he gained no new information. Teresa Rinaldi, the girl named as Orsi’s current girlfriend by Maria Bianchi, seemed very upset, but was totally unable to give them any idea as to who could ever wish to do such an appalling thing. She seemed as mystified as they were.
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 52